Sunday, 2 June 2013

We broke the house

You wrote me from a book of disorder.
You stole an identity
painted my name with a tattered brush
long, old, and worn.
Paint thrown thick and black
onto walls, onto paper,
onto stone, brick, and a cold house
yellow wallpaper no longer kind, gentle
the place that you longed for
torn, ripped, decayed and unloved.
The paint drips onto your shoes
as you remember where the first cracks appeared.
But you don't remember how.
Or what.
Except, the hate you have of me.
Grown, kept, nourished
by desperation.
That poison
My dear, it is called addiction.
You cannot resist to taste and paste
my name like lyrics to explain your hate.
To everything purple and green, yellow and red,
you compare me to everything you love and dread.
For all to see and share and learn
the evil you see
the satisfaction you feed
to help support your sadness as it burns.
Hungry child weeps.

Away with the fairies

 I see shadows in the distance,
They follow me.
Tired memories polluted with drink and darkness.
A mist ventures from shadow to shadow,
it falls and rises
As poison presses deeper into the veins of willow trees.
A smile that lingers on the lips of a fairy
hides and sings
“Dance, dance with me.”
Spiders fall from dead leaves
Onto ground scattered with thorns and blood.
The naked feet of a traveller
Blisters with hate
As the song of the hopeless
drifts further into the forest.